


Shrouding Us In Moments Unforgettable

by Gourmet



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Anal Sex, Community: pacificrimkink, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, fluff (sort of), mentions of BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gourmet/pseuds/Gourmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sound of rain reaches Newton first, but it’s the sound of the slow, steady breaths that he can feel skimming over his shoulder that grounds him in the present and chases away the clinging remnants of Hong Kong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shrouding Us In Moments Unforgettable

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on the pacificrimkink meme:  
> http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/1613.html?thread=2147149#t2147149
> 
> "One rainy Sunday morning Newt and Hermann sleep in and stay in bed all day long and have lots of lazy, slow sex. With snack breaks between rounds. And cuddling. All the time.
> 
> Bonus points for bottom!Newt."

The sound of rain reaches Newton first. It’s a pattering sound that slips between his ears and pulls up the edges of the easy, dreamless sleep he’d been wrapped in. It calls up a fog of garbled conversations in a language he doesn’t understand, the smell of meat and noodles from street-side vendors, the clang of gold tipped shoes dissolving into crumbling concrete, and when he finally forces his eyes open, he has to blink away the ghost of neon signs and beautifully horrifying shades of blue that glow in the corner of his eyes just a few moments too long. The sound of rain reaches Newton first, but it’s the sound of the slow, steady breaths that he can feel skimming over his shoulder that grounds him in the present and chases away the clinging remnants of Hong Kong.

It’s been years since that night, but the memory lingers, always will, and Newton has learned that he doesn’t necessarily mind that. They saved the world that night, after all, why wouldn’t he want to remember it? It’s just, you know, a little disorienting that he still comes awake at times and expects to find himself standing in Hannibal Chau’s shop, or shoving through the streets back towards the Shatterdome. But they’re loose expectations, and it’s gotten a lot easier to remember where he actually is, and this morning is no exception. 

His first instinct is to turn over and grab his glasses off the nightstand because he seriously can’t see more than a foot or two away from the bed without them, but he’s miraculously managed not to twitch or squirm or fidget yet in the process of waking up, which means the pattern of breaths against his shoulder hasn’t altered. Newton glances down and is only a little surprised to find Hermann’s cheek pushed against his shoulder, his body twisted towards him sometime in the night. Usually it’s the other way around, with Newton coming awake to find he’s abandoned his side of the bed in favor of tangling his arms and legs around Hermann’s body, earning irritated and disgusted sounds from his bedmate because, yeah, sorry, sometimes he drools a little on Hermann’s hair or his stomach. The guilt is more sincere on the mornings when his unconscious Manifest Destiny of the bed puts Hermann’s bad leg in some odd or uncomfortable position, forcing him to lean more heavily on his cane or take more breaks throughout the day.

This morning, however, he’s awake first, and he doesn’t move right away because he seriously can’t remember the last time he just…laid there with Hermann. Not without being on the edge of passing out from exhaustion or alcohol, or panting in the aftermath of more hot-blooded activities. And that’s largely because they aren’t the types of people who make a habit of lying around in bed _just_ _because_. Hermann has a severe distaste for wasting time that could be spent productively, and Newton is typically too high on caffeine and adrenaline and his own brain running a mile a minute to have any appreciation for something like that.

But it’s raining outside and, okay, maybe he’s still sitting right at the edges of that sleepy, mostly-but-not-entirely awake stage, so Newton doesn’t feel the need to throw himself out of the bed just yet. He spends a few minutes just watching Hermann sleep, instead. In books and movies and poetry and other over romanticized bullshit, people like to look down at their sleeping lovers and paint a picture of angelic serenity and peaceful perfection. But Hermann would be mutinously offended by any such comparisons, and that’s not what Newton sees anyway.

Hermann is not a peaceful or serene person. He sure as hell isn’t when he’s awake, and he still isn’t just because he goes to sleep for a few hours every night. Hermann is controlled. Rigidly, meticulously, _infuriatingly_ controlled. And on the occasions when he isn’t – when it slips or it’s taken from him or when, most often, Newton kicks and shoves and pushes him beyond it – he’s either fighting to get it back or he’s making certain everyone in the immediate vicinity knows why they should prefer him to be. Hermann’s other stuff too, of course, like stern and dry and proper and brilliant and sharp and incredible, but mostly, he’s controlled.

He’s a little less so when he’s sleeping. There’s still a stern set to face, but it’s not as severe, and the hard line of his lips is softened a little by them being parted, open just enough to let breath pass down into his lungs and back out over the splash of color on Newton’s shoulder. And he’s seriously not ever completely relaxed when he’s sleeping, not with years and years of willing his body not to exacerbate the constant reoccurring aches in his hip and leg. Hermann is, however, less stiff in sleep than he is when he’s awake, and Newton rarely gets the chance to see him this way even after years of sharing the same bed, so he enjoys the moment while it lasts.

Ultimately, Newton ruins that moment himself. Which, you know, not surprising. Because the rain starts coming down a little harder outside and that pleasant sleep haze trickles away, chased off by a low thrum of energy that he usually ratchets up to a full, consuming buzz with a few large cups of coffee before he’s even in his shoes for the day. But he doesn’t actually want to get out of bed yet, because it’s warm, and it’s Sunday, and he doesn’t have shit else to do, so why not deviate from the norm a little and just enjoy it a while? And he can think of a few ways he’d like to enjoy it.

Carefully, very carefully, he lifts his head and squints as hard as he can at the clock on Hermann’s nightstand. It takes a moment, but he eventually manages to make numbers out of the blurry glow: 7:49 (or something close to that). Newton cringes a little. He’s probably more of a morning person than some people, but even he shudders at the idea of just getting up and starting a Sunday before eight am. Briefly, he toys with the idea of trying to force himself back to sleep, but even though Hermann’s conceded to not set the alarm on the weekends – barring something they actually do have to get up for, of course – that doesn’t keep his biological clock from ensuring he’s awake well before ten, sometimes even nine in the morning. Newton usually finds him in the living room watching the news or reading something when he finally comes around himself, so regardless of what he decides, Hermann won’t sleep for much longer.

And yeah, it’s early, but Newton figures it can’t really count as “getting up” before eight on a Sunday if he doesn’t actually get out of bed, so he sets his head back down and lifts a hand instead. He’s careful when he pushes the bedspread further down from where it had settled near their waists, nudging it far enough that he can watch his fingers slip under Hermann’s shirt. The shirt, like all the other ones Hermann insists on wearing to bed unless they’re right in the middle of summertime, is stupid. It’s got buttons and a collar for fuck’s sake! So even as Newton drags the material up Hermann’s side, he knows he’ll eventually have to go through the tedious task of unbuttoning at least a portion of the thing if he wants it completely off.

Or he could just pull at the sides until the buttons are torn apart themselves, which he’s done on several occasions, because it’s easier and he loves the furious, stuttering accusations it earns before Hermann recollects himself. And they both know that the way it spurs him to shove Newton face first into the bed and rain open handed smacks across his ass and thighs until his palm is sore and Newton is moaning and sniffling in equal measures is not at all the deterrent they pretend it to be.

The thought crosses Newton’s mind and lingers there long enough that his cock stirs, and he fists his fingers on the inside of Hermann’s sleep shirt. Ultimately, however, he loosens his grip and returns to stroking his palm up over Hermann’s rib cage, shifting closer and pushing his thigh forward until it slips between his still covered by the bedspread. Hermann shifts, and his brow furrows slightly, the steady rhythm of his breaths faltering. Newton forges on, pushing his shirt up far enough that even from this angle he can see the darker skin of a nipple, and he swipes his thumb out over it, tracing in languid circles, and Hermann pushes, just once, against Newton’s thigh before speaking up.

“What are you doing, Dr. Geiszler?” he demands without bothering to open his eyes, lips skimming Newton’s shoulder, and his voice pitched low and rough with mostly but not entirely sleep.

“It’s raining,” Newton offers, scratching the edge of his thumbnail against the nipple he’d been teasing, and Hermann sighs, a sound that’s partially pleased and largely exasperated. But he still doesn’t rush to open his eyes or roll away, which means he’s either enjoying himself too much or is still half asleep and not quite ready to make a decision about Newton’s rather blatant propositioning. And as much as Newton would love to say it was definitely the former, he’s actually pretty sure it’s a bit of both.

But Hermann is at least partially awake now, so he shimmies in place, enough to generate some friction where his thigh is tucked and to nudge with his nose and jaw until Hermann sighs again and tilts his head, giving Newton access to what skin remains bare above the collar of his shirt. He works his lips across the curve of his jaw and down his throat, catching the stupid collar of Hermann’s shirt between his teeth to tug. There is a brief, irritated sound from above him, and Newton grins into the flannel, tugging again before turning his teeth on the skin above it.

“Don’t you dare leave any marks above the collar, Newton,” Hermann warns, sounding more aware but no less rough. It, of course, only makes Newton want to latch on, to bite and suck until the skin stands out stark and bruised against the pale of Hermann’s throat. He wants Hermann to stand up in front of his colleagues or a lecture hall with a brand peeking out over the tweed of his really awful suits, making sure everyone in attendance gets a glimpse, knows his brilliant ass is taken.

Of course, the last time he’d pinned Hermann to a wall and sucked a hickey high against the sweep of his jaw, he’d earned several less enjoyable, cane shaped bruises of his own against his side and thigh, and Hermann had spent nearly two weeks refusing and shrugging off the slightest contact between them. And as a largely physical, touchy kind of guy, Newton had loathed the distance. It's cold enough for scarves now, so he could probably get away with it with less severe consequences, but Hermann has lifted a thin hand to his back and isn’t shoving him back onto his side of the bed, so he reluctantly lifts his head.

He’s not really surprised to find Hermann’s eyes open, but he is surprised by the soft expression in them. And Newton knows if he points it out that Hermann will roll his eyes and make some dry remark about just waking up, and really, Newton, do you take me to be so sentimental? Newton doesn’t. He knows that there’s sentiment there, and he’s seen these little glimpses before – the first time he’d held Charlotte out towards Newton to hold, watching the news together when it was broadcasting the last pieces of the Wall being brought down, the first time Newton had stammered out a tirade of stream of consciousness that cradled those three terrifying words – but it isn’t in Hermann’s nature to wax poetic or let himself become too deeply tied into his emotions. So Newton doesn’t comment, but when Hermann lifts his fingers to brush the hair off his forehead, he tilts his head up and skims a kiss over the tips of them.

Hermann snorts quietly and drops his hand to Newton’s shoulder. “I am not kissing you until we’ve brushed our teeth,” he states.

“Yeesh, Hermann, kill the mood why don’cha?” he drawls before remembering the hand pushed under Hermann’s shirt, and he pinches the nipple between his fingers. It earns him a breath and just a little extra color that looks good, always looks good, in Hermann’s cheeks, but not much else. At least he can feel where Hermann is more interested against his thigh.

“Oh, yes, because you’re so easy to dissuade from the notion of relations,” Hermann says dryly, and Newton makes a face, leveraging himself up enough to start unfastening those stupid little buttons.

“Relations, dude? Seriously? Who says that? Nobody says that,” Newton answers himself, pushing Hermann’s shirt open so he can put his mouth on his chest.

Long, thin fingers slide up from his shoulder, skimming over the curl of Otachi’s tongue inked around the back of his neck, before they sink into his hair. “I don’t particularly care how popular my vernacular is,” Hermann points out, a thread of something warm creeping between the slates of sarcasm in his voice when Newton gets his lips around that nipple.

Newton mumbles something mostly smart-assy against his skin, and Hermann responds by laying his other hand against the small of his back, pushing him down until Newton is grinding against his good thigh. “It certainly doesn’t feel as if you have any objections to it, either,” he adds, smirking lazily, and Newton doesn’t bother to hide the moan that escapes him.

“Mmm, you know me, hot for overwrought linguistics and proper grammar,” and it’s not exactly a lie, but Newton says it like it is and laves the tip of his tongue down the line of Hermann’s sternum. The hand at the small of his back presses again, and Newton rocks obediently, rubbing his dick against Hermann’s leg, but pressing his own thigh closer, feeling Hermann hot through his hideous flannel pants.

“Oh, I do,” Hermann assures him in a murmur, smug bastard that he is. Newton scoffs and Hermann hums, and for a few minutes after, there’s only the sound of rain against the window and clothes being shifted and discarded. Hermann’s fingers slide back into Newton’s hair and clench, just on the right side of painful, when Newton fills his mouth with his cock.

“M-Must you make those ridiculous sounds?” he demands, voice catching just slightly, and Newton would have grinned if, you know, his mouth wasn’t full. Instead he gets louder, making absurd noises around him, growls and offbeat humming and really just anything that makes his mouth vibrate, because Hermann will bitch about it, but it also makes his hips twitch, pushes him further across his tongue, and Newton loves that.

When he comes off of his dick, it’s with a pop that makes the color rise attractively in Hermann’s cheeks. Newton grins and wraps his fingers around the base, dragging his tongue in long, languid strokes up his shaft. And when was the last time they did _this?_ Okay, okay, it has not been a long time since either of them has gotten a blowjob, let’s just be honest about that. But first thing in the morning? In bed? In the midst of a slow burn rather than the blaze they’re usually so consumed by in each other’s company? It’s nice. Newton rubs his thumb against the vein pulsing against his fingers and presses sucking kisses against him, listening to Hermann groan and fight to keep his breath steady, until the fingers in his hair grip, pulling him up from between his thighs.

True to his word, Hermann doesn’t kiss him, but he does bite the side of his neck and his shoulder, and Newton moans his approval for the flash of pain. They spend a few moments leaving marks on each other’s skin – nowhere a suit won’t cover – and Newton swipes his fingers over the bites peppered across Hermann’s shoulder and chest. Hermann’s bites are always lost in the sweep and clash of colors he’s already painted himself with, but Hermann’s skin is a blank canvas and every mark stands out in vivid detail if he presses his teeth hard enough.

“You should totally get a tattoo,” he says, not for the first or last time, as they rearrange themselves. When Hermann is sitting up and comfortable leaning against the headboard, he straddles his lap and mouths at his ear. “Seriously, man. You’d be so hot with a little ink,” he breaths against his skin, tugging at the lobe with his teeth when a finger rubs between his ass cheeks.

“So you’ve mentioned,” Hermann says, sounding exasperated but not unkind, and his free hand finds the line of Otachi's wings against Newton’s back without having to see them, a blunt nail following around the edges of the tattoo.

Newton squirms until Herman has two fingers inside of him, and then he wraps his arms around his neck and grins, rocking with the lazy thrusting of the digits. “Oh, come on. It’s not like anybody else would even know about it! What about one of your algorithms or a piece of code from the Mark-1 programming or, oh _fuck_ , you know, something like that. Shit, do that again,” he groans, pushing harder back onto his fingers, and Hermann complies.

Hermann watches him, eyes half-lidded but sharp, and he curls his fingers hard enough to make Newton bit his lip and arch his back. “You have enough tattoos for the both of us.”

“N-Nah! Always room for more,” Newton insists, breathless, and he kisses his ear again, smiling when Hermann tips his head a bit closer to his mouth and stubble.

He tightens his arms around Hermann’s shoulders and breathes a hiss out between his teeth when, a few moments later, Hermann’s hands are on his hips, pulling him down, and he’s happy to sink onto his cock. “Oh, man,” he sighs, tilting his head back, and Hermann takes that as an invitation to pepper his throat with kisses that are surprisingly but pleasantly tender. “This is nice.”

A hum of concurrence sounds near his shoulder, and they stay like that for a while, listening to each other breathe over the rain. If he were to close his eyes and really try, Newton is certain he would be able to hear the rest of those conversations in Hong Kong, the snippets that chase him awake some mornings like he’s still shining a black light on signs in the street. But he doesn’t try, doesn’t want to, not right now. Instead he unwinds one hand from around Hermann’s back and grabs the top of the headboard, pulling himself up, and Hermann’s fingers squeeze against his hip when he rocks back down.

He does it again and Hermann’s palm moves up and down his side, the other tapping out the pattern of raindrops against his hip, and Newton moans quietly. He doesn’t speed up and Hermann doesn’t urge him to. They rock like that, slow and deep, and if he didn’t know better, Newton would think maybe they were still half asleep. Hell, maybe they are – he really isn’t always the best judge of his own level of consciousness. Eventually, Hermann’s fingers loop around his cock, and Newton tips his head down, forehead against his, breath stuttering warmly out of him. “Fuck, Hermann, baby,” he murmurs.

It’s not a sobriquet Hermann is fond of, and honestly, Newton, I’m not an infant, so do refrain from referring to me in such a manner. But whether it’s the hypnotic patter of rain or the warm trance they’ve rocked their way into, Hermann merely snorts, a quiet, accepting sort of sound, and squeezes his hip again, his cock after. “Of course, darling,” he offers in return, and Newton shudders, pressing his fingertips against the back of Hermann’s shoulder, and a half dozen thrusts later, he’s gasping and coming on their skin and Hermann’s fingers. A half dozen, somewhat shakier, thrusts more, Hermann follows suit and his moan sounds almost like Newton’s name.

Newton pants softly, his fingers slipping against Hermann’s back, and he smiles a little at the slow, absent stroking against his hip. He lets go of the headboard and loops his arm back around Hermann, leaning his cheek against his shoulder, just for a moment, just while he still feels warm and loose and his skin tingles pleasantly with every pass of Hermann’s thumb over his hip bone. He closes his eyes for a moment, and he hears rain and Hermann’s breath against his ear, but not Hong Kong, not right now.

As nice as it is, though, he really can’t sit still _that_ long, so he lifts his head and ruffles Hermann’s hair obnoxiously, giving him an easy way to slip out of the tranquility and back into his scoffs and glares, both of which he does exceptionally well. “You are impossible, do you know that?” Hermann snips, rolling his eyes when Newton flashes him a cheeky grin as he climbs off of his lap.

“Yeah, you mention that two or three times a day,” he offers, climbing off the bed, and for just a split second, Hermann looks, dare Newton think it, disappointed. That turns quickly into indignant sputtering and a hand shoving him back by the face, however, after he swoops down and crushes his mouth against his, whether Hermann likes it or not. Newton lets out a laugh that’s more of a triumphant cackle and walks around the bed to snatch his glasses off his nightstand. “I’ll bring you a cup of tea!”

“I do not want anything from you after that disgusting-!” Hermann makes a noise Newton would sooner expect from a six year old boy getting his first smattering of kisses from grandma or the little girl across the street. It makes Newton laugh again on his way into the bathroom, and he reappears all of three minutes later, more or less wiped off and teeth clean, and Hermann glares after him from the bed as he stumbles into his boxers only because he can’t remember if he left any blinds open last night or not. “Irish breakfast,” he snaps after him.

Newton snickers his way to the kitchen, putting on the kettle and digging into a cabinet for Hermann’s tea tins. Things had gotten better. Yeah, in their townhouse, but also out in the world. Sure the governments went back to subtly and not-so-subtly attempting to hook a noose around each other’s throats, but after the first two or three years, societies around the globe had stopped stumbling over their own feet and settled into a rhythm of reconstruction. Resurrecting their economies and redefining ‘normality.’ But what that meant for their beautifully dreary Sunday was food that didn’t come out of a can and quality tea leaves to spoon into Hermann’s infuser.

And, okay, what Newton really wants is coffee, but he knows he’ll never be able to climb back into bed and stay there if he lets himself do that. And Hermann hasn’t come out of the bedroom yet, so he’s pretty sure he has a shot at keeping him in there, at least for a few more hours. So, instead of coffee, he finds one of the smaller, newest tins of tea in the cabinet that Hermann had brought home last week and made a disgusted sound over because honestly Newton, you have become a horrid influence, I don’t know what possessed me to think I should purchase a tea with chocolate pieces in it.

Newton grins and digs an “extra” infuser out of a drawer, steeping another mug of tea that Hermann totally had not bought in his ongoing and really not at all subtle attempt at making Newton into a tea drinker. And it definitely wasn’t working – seriously, he’d never turn his back completely on coffee – but maybe he does know how long to leave the leaves in and how much sugar to add, and he’s very proud of himself for managing to get both mugs, and two store-bought muffins back to the bedroom with minimal sloshing.

Hermann is on the bed, but Newton knows he’s gotten up to clean up and brush his teeth. He has not, however, gotten redressed, and Newton waggles his eyebrows at him. “Careful. It’s hot,” he hums, setting Hermann’s mug and muffin on his nightstand before climbing right over him to get to his side of the bed.

To hear Hermann sigh would make one think he was the most put upon man in the world. “Well, yes. If it weren’t, I would send you back out to redo it,” he states, checking the bed for spilled tea and only picking his mug up once he has assured himself there is none. He glances over and watches Newton over the rim, smirking against the ceramic, because he’s definitely noticed there’s no sharp curl of coffee in the air. Newton raises an eyebrow at him over his own mug, daring him to comment on the tea and thereby expose himself as a gooey, gift-buying tea-influencer. Hermann closes his eyes and hums his response noncommittally.

Newton snorts and rolls his own eyes, kicking his boxers back off and hissing out a curse when tea sloshes onto his chest in the process. “Oh, honestly, Newton!” Hermann exclaims next to him when he uses said boxers to dab his skin dry, and Hermann’s got that unimpressed, pinched look on his face when Newton shimmies over to force himself upon the his side. “Why must you insist on acting like a Barbarian?” he demands, r’s rolling in irritation, and he’s still frowning when Newton leans up and rubs his lips against his.

“Sorry we can’t all be Dr. Perfect, hot shot,” he offers, tugging at Hermann’s lower lip with his teeth until he sighs and relents to a kiss that tastes like tea and makes Newton think he might not mind having it more often off Hermann’s tongue.

They settle again, watching the rain against the window and alternating between light bickering and easy conversation. Where is it we’re speaking this week? Why do you always go first on these joint things? No, I’m comfortable right here, you’re stuck with me. Are we going to Manchester for Charlotte’s birthday this year? Just you wait, I bet she ends up with as much ink as I’ve got. Don’t tell Vanessa I said that. Yeah, yeah, I know she likes me okay, but when Charlotte comes home in twelve years with a bird or the quadratic formula on her ribs, Uncle Newt’s not taking the fall for that.

Newton even manages to convince Hermann to at least split a muffin in bed with him, crumbs be damned. But Hermann is not charmed by his attempts to feed him because I am neither an animal nor an invalid, Newton, I will feed myself, but he doesn’t have the same protests at the ready when Newton dips forward and wraps his lips around Hermann’s fingers, stealing the piece of muffin he’d torn off for himself. Licking his lips in as overtly lascivious a manner as possible, Newton moans loudly and waggles his eyebrows again, and Hermann calls him impossible, absolutely impossible, before pulling him into a hard kiss that tastes more like blueberries now.

Whatever remained of their tea is quickly forgotten, left to cool alongside the discarded muffin’s leftovers while Hermann and Newton attempt to occupy as much of the same space on the bed as they can. The rain sounds a bit lighter by the time Hermann is knuckles deep inside of him again, but Newton doesn’t hear it anymore anyway, not over his own gasping and the low, throaty murmur of Hermann’s voice in his ear, and you like that, don’t you, Dr. Geiszler? But for all the blood rushing in his ears, the pace still feels sedated compared to their typical habits, and Newton whirls his thumb through the slick at the head of Hermann’s cock until he shivers against his side, hissing when those beautifully long fingers slip out, completely out, before pressing slowly back into him again. It’s driving him crazy, and he groans out pathetically breathless little “yes’s” until those fingers are as deep as they can go again.

They kiss the skin they can reach without having to untangle themselves, mostly lips and temples and shoulders, stretches of pale and painted skin where they can murmur the kinds of soft things that have never really fit into their preferred sort of functioning dysfunction. Newton worships the shape of Hermann’s cock with fingertips and palm, kissing reminders against the underside of his chin, “Fuck, you know you’re beautiful, right, baby? Just beautiful.” And Hermann lets it slip a second time that day, rocking into his hand and groaning his approval into Newton’s hair before twisting his own fingers. “Oh, sweet boy,” he lilts as he curls them and massages slow, firm circles against Newton’s prostate until his toes curl, and he digs his teeth into Hermann’s shoulder and shouts against his skin. A few moments later, his hand is sticky and Hermann sighs into his hair, shivering next to him. He doesn’t even protest when Newton slings his arm across his chest and forces his head under his chin.

A short nap is definitely in order, as far as Newton is concerned. And afterwards, they’ll probably get out of bed and put clothes on and find something else to fight about. But for now it’s warm, and Hermann’s hand is tracing out the pattern of wings against his back again, which actually feels really good. And as he slips back under, the sound of rain fades away first, chased off by the thrum of Hermann’s heart and the pace of his breath skimming across his temple.

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's been ages since I wrote any fanfiction, so sorry for it being all over the place! Vague-ish timeline to keep this from turning into a monster and to keep from having to hammer out too many details. Named Hermann's daughter after Charlotte Angas Scott. And for anyone on tumblr, you can find me at snowfell!


End file.
